


bloodstream

by ikvros



Category: Midnight Cinderella (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hysteria, Infidelity, Masturbation, many mentions of byron - again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 15:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikvros/pseuds/ikvros
Summary: A deleted scene referenced in 'i'm on fire', in which the Princess discovers the consequences of ignoring her desires, and Nico is happy to help her relieve them.





	bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

> heyo i've always wanted to write a deleted scene from a fic, and when gummi-panda3 requested nico + #8 from the [101 kinks list](https://fenrirgodspeed.tumblr.com/post/179028680507/101-kinks-send-me-a-number-and-a-ship-and-ill), which is begging, i couldn't pass up this opportunity. i am super in love with this universe and would like to continue this series in the future, so feel free to send me [requests](http://fenrirgodspeed.tumblr.com/ask) for more if they strike you.
> 
> title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HAhQ9_0gkM).
> 
> kudos and comments are always devoured and cherished.

While she bathes, her thoughts wander, as they are so prone to do without the direction of a task. When she was chosen as Wysteria’s princess elect, it quickly became her favorite part of the day: precious moments of relaxation amidst never-ending lessons, studies, and diplomatic visits with perturbable nobles. She rather enjoyed the time to herself — so much so, in fact, that there were many days Giles had to send the maids in after her.

And then, in the blink of an eye, she had become Queen Consort of Stein — and Byron’s wife.

For nearly a year, she’s been avoiding extended periods of leisure, at the risk of giving herself time to contemplate her position, and her anger room to fester. It will do no good to mope about the life she lives; she chose it, and it is hers now, until she dies or Byron does. So she busies herself tasks appropriate for a Queen (or Stein’s idea of one), and corresponds with Giles about matters in Wysteria (worsening by the day, as the bedridden King refuses to abdicate the throne), and definitely, _definitely_ does not think about Steiner Knight and her personal attendant, Nico Meier.

Except that now, with nothing else to focus on except the heat of the water encompassing her and the intoxicating perfume of her bath oils, she _does_.

She thinks first of his hands — of their effortless, confounding duality.

She thinks of the way his right brandishes a sword, with the intent to guard his life, and the skill to end another’s _(she knows, because when he returns to the castle spattered in blood, it’s never his own)_ ; how his practiced steadiness translates to the steeping and pouring of tea like a beautiful language.

She thinks of his fingers, lithe and nimble in her hair when he offers to braid it, gentle and patient through the tangles; of the way they curl into his palms when he’s angry but _mustn’t speak,_ and how his knuckles whiten with the force of it.

She remembers, too, what they felt like the only time he has ever deigned to purposefully touch her without his gloves: warm and callused, reverent as they held hers all that time ago in the carriage — the day he had promised himself to her. She wonders what they might feel like against her cheek, her neck, and the dip of her collarbone, shivering despite her rising temperature. Her own fingers trail along the slope of her sternum, gliding across her ribcage, the ghost of an imagined touch. She gasps at the sensation, feels flame licking just beneath her skin everywhere they travel.

Byron’s never touched her this way, or at all, really; they’ve copulated only once, to consummate their marriage. Every day since, they’ve gone to bed alone — and despite their quarters being separated by a mere door, he’s never disturbed her. She supposes she should count herself lucky, since she doesn’t love him — few married women can say that their husbands do not expect to partake in their bodies, even queens. After all, it’s not Byron she lusts after; it’s not _Byron’s_ hands she imagines as she cups her breasts beneath the water’s surface, but that doesn’t make her reality any less lonely, or her skin any less touch-starved.

One hand trails lower, sliding down past her navel, and her head falls back against the lip of the bath when her fingertips meet her clit. A quiet sound escapes her, relief and pleasure entwined, and when her eyes flutter shut, it’s _Nico’s_ hands on her body — rolling a nipple between his fingers, grasping at the fullest parts of her, speaking in her ear with that teasing lilt of his. Every nerve in her body flickers as she pleasures herself, alighting with the illusion of his attention.

She's completely lost in it, not registering the slosh of the water, nor the sounds she makes as she chases her fantasy to the brink. Her body is hot from the exertion and the temperature of the bath, sweating even as she’s supposed to be washing for bed, and she can barely breathe, much less think about the fact that Nico is likely preparing her evening tea in the adjacent room. That’s why, following a jarring knock at the door and the concerned voice of her attendant, she cries out some strangled version of his name that is half-question and half-plea. A stupid, thoughtless reaction on her part — not a second later does “I’m coming in” accompany the door swinging open, revealing the wide-eyed, panicked man she’s just been shamelessly fantasizing about.

He says her name, but it sounds so far away. She must look a mess, flushed and heaving for breath, half-lidded as she stares wordlessly back at him. She can feel wisps of her pinned-up hair sticking to her forehead and temples; the painful hammer of her heart against her chest. Her body is on fire, still submerged beneath the water, but her hands have ceased their movement — a good thing, too, because Nico immediately grabs a towel and rushes toward her.

“How long have you been in the bath?!” He exclaims, but she doesn’t know, and can’t answer him. “You’re overheated. Let’s get you out of here.”

It’s almost infuriating, how unaffected he looks by her nakedness; how he politely averts his eyes while he helps her stand, but it’s soon replaced by relief when the cool air hits her skin — so much relief that it makes her moan, and _that_ , at least, brings color to his cheeks while he wraps the towel around her.

“Just what were you thinking, trying to boil yourself alive?” He scolds, but there’s no anger behind it. His hand wraps securely around hers once she’s covered, but it’s gloved, as per his uniform. “Can you — do you think you can step out? I’ll help you.”

She nods, but she’s wobbly in the wake of her failed climax, her core burning with unrelieved pressure, and she nearly tumbles over when she tries to hike a leg up enough to clear the wall of the tub. She’s saved only by Nico’s arms, strong and sure as they catch her, and deja vu rushes over her when she falls into his chest — as she recalls her first day as Princess Elect, when he’d saved her from a nasty fall on the staircase.

“I can’t,” she gasps, because it’s the delightful truth, and he’s stock-still for a second when her arms wind around his neck. “Please...help me.”

“Of course. You’re okay, you’ll cool down,” he soothes, and then he’s lifting her up and out, one arm sliding gracefully behind the backs of her knees. He cradles her against his chest, and she’s vaguely aware that she must be soaking his uniform — but he seems too concerned about her wellbeing to care as he carries her back to her chambers. She clings to him, relishes in the gentle swing of his movement, and nearly panics when she feels her bed at her backside. “Here, lay down, and I’ll get you some water.”

How can she possibly let him go when she’s just figured out what it feels like to be held so tenderly? She doesn’t need water; doesn’t _want_ to cool down, and instead of falling back against the pillows, she clings to him with renewed vitality. He chokes out her name, and she buries her face in his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do. He smells sweet, like pastries and milk tea, and it’s all she can do not to moan again.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, frozen in her arms, and she can feel the towel slipping down her body.

“I don’t know,” she whimpers. “Please, I — I just…”

“What can I do?” He sounds strained. “Should I call for a doctor?”

“ _No_.” She shakes her head furiously, still burrowed in the crook of his neck. “I want — I need —”

“What is it? Please, tell me.” He sounds so desperate, so concerned, and she needs to form the words to let him know that she’s not sick, not in any danger, but she _can’t_. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

She’s burning, and she does the only thing her body wants her to do in that moment — she opens her mouth against the soft skin of his throat, tongue meeting flesh, leaving no question that what is currently afflicting her is a case of _hysteria_. Nico makes the most delicious sound even as he goes rigid, though he makes no move to remove himself from her embrace.

“ _Please,_ ” she murmurs against his skin, fingers finding their way into the silken hair at the nape of his neck. “I need it, I…to be touched...”

She kisses his neck again, and his arms tighten around her for the briefest moment before he finally pushes at her shoulders. She loosens, with a bit of reluctance, and immediately falls back against the bed, boneless without his support.

Her eyes flutter open to see Nico standing above her, wearing an expression she’s never seen before — an expression that stokes the fire in her. The gold of his irises are a rapidly shrinking band as he stares at her for moments that seem to drag on forever, and she bites her lip, unaware and uncaring that the towel has fallen open, that her body is on full display for a man that is not her husband. And finally, after a minute, a lifetime, he speaks.

“I need you to be very, very clear.” It’s deadly serious, as is his expression, but there’s an edge to his voice; a husky gravel that makes her shiver. “Tell me exactly what it is that you want, so there’s no question. Can you do that for me?”

She nods hurriedly, but it takes her a few seconds to find the proper words, to arrange them in a way that reflects exactly what she’s been trying to tell him — what she’s been wanting for much longer than she even knew.

“Nico, I want you...to touch me. To pleasure me, to make love to me, _please_ ...that’s what I want.” And she hopes that’s good enough, because she doesn’t know how else to say it without sounding completely debauched, and she’s barely holding on as it is. She’s mad with it, and he’s _so_ beautiful standing over her, and she might just die if he doesn’t reach out and —  

But he does, at the apex of her thighs, so featherlight — he _touches_ her, and she’s gone.

“Is this what you wanted, _Princess_?” His purr in her ear makes her gasp, her old title familiar in his mouth, but not in this voice, and goosebumps spread over her skin. She moans her affirmation, clutching at the lapels of his uniform, desperate for more friction than he’s giving her. “I need a real answer.”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” she gasps, arching her hips. “Please, more.”

And so he listens.


End file.
